Me ‘n’ the Big

kelly, June 3, 2007

I can hear the MoH in the bedroom cooing loving endearments softly to the Big, calling her his latest rendition of her moniker: Quatro Formaggio. Yes. Four Cheeses. I know it isn’t quite Italian, or Spanish, but still. You get the idea. Now why a man would call his dog Four Cheeses and have it come from his lips as a velvety verbal gift is beyond me. The MoH is hilarious. He never coos at me. He probably knows I’d slug him for being so gooey. But he makes me laugh and that’s lovely.

“Quattro Formaggio” is a bit more tolerable than the former derivative of her name; one which lasted for about two weeks and was never uttered as a pleasantry — “Jose Biggedy Jones the Quatro.” Or the all time favorite, “Biggedy Jones” which we think came from Indiana Jones or Harrison Ford, or something and came before the Quattro fixation the MoH has right now. And “Biggedy R.L. Jones the Third” was a good one for a while, but the RT and I could never get the MoH to tell us what the hell R.L. stood for. Go figure.

Or sometimes he just calls her “Jones Jones,” just in case one Jones isn’t enough. All the names — and I am leaving an amazing number out because I can’t remember what order they morphed in — are all delivered in a pure falsetto that the Big always responds to with a shift of her brows or a rhythmic tap of her tail. The thing about the Big though, is she always knows her name. Even if it’s just Big, which is the name I use. After all, she is my dog. Me — a cat person with a dog — one that really looks like a cross between a pig and a deer. Or a cow with a pointy nose. The RT decided I needed one for a birthday about eight years ago, so voila. Now, do I look like someone who needs a d-o-g?

The Big doesn’t seem very smart most of the time, but understands a lot of language. I defensively remind the MoH of this fact when he’s telling her she’s not very smart. We even test her to see if the tone of our voice is the key to her understanding language, but it isn’t. It’s the vowels. You know — those a-e-i-o-u thingy-mo-bobs. She even understands the spelling of many sentences — not just words, so if we don’t want to get roped into doing whatever it is she’s listening for, we have to be very careful.

Hey Big! Do you want to go for a ride? This one makes her crazy. She hips and hops — very difficult for a plus size girl — and tries very hard to make her sad excuses for floppy ears perk up. She cocks her head, her tail freezes, and she waits for confirmation that she has correctly translated her favorite sentence into Dog Speak. The Dog Speak version goes something like this: /uwannagoferaride?/ Pretty cool, huh? She loves to go for a ride, but not when we drive over 40 mph. Because then she can’t poke her face out the window and assail her olfactory system with the billions of scents she picks up along the road, providing dream fodder for a week of dog naps.

Or: Do you want a bone? This was the first one she learned. Well, actually, she learned bone first, and the rest was added over time just to see if she could anticipate bone at the end of the sentence. Yep. She could.

And: Where’s your boy? That’s the RT in case you forgot. She understands the boy part and is somewhat glum when he goes to visit his cousin for a weekend or two. I think she’s really attached to his basic teenage stinkiness, so when he’s not here, she completely gets it. The only reason she’s laying next to me right now is because the RT is sleeping in — call that avoiding his Geometry homework that has to be done by noon each Sunday. As soon as the RT is up, she’ll go lay on his bed, inhaling that earthy locker room fragrance that can only be the RTs. Well, except he’s discovered Axel deoderant which adds an interesting spin to things. Kind of a pungent spicy mustiness. The girls should be lining up any time now.

I have to head downstairs to accompany the MoH on a walk to the farmer’s market again. He really liked that last weekend, and I’m on a quest to get in five walks this week. That’s about 15 miles tallied and the best I’ve done for about two or three weeks. Woo Hoo! I need it considering the time I’ll be on my butt getting this blob up and looking gorgeous. I’m reaching obsessiveness about it at this point, but decided to throw in the Me Shots just to keep you in line while you’re waiting. And thanks for waiting.

I gotta get busy. I call Butter “muffin pants”, but that’s about it. I remember your MoH gave Tigger her last name of “Magoo.” Can he work on something for Curly Sue? We’ve only gotten as far as “Killer Sue.” Well, my MoH calls her “Piss Bucket.” I have changed it to PB Sue.

Animal name story:
We have just the two cats (and too many fishies to count, but before cats & kids each one was named and talked to & oogled over daily – not so much any more) but the cats are Sophie P. & Zeeke P…”P” meaning Pussy. Sophie also got a middle name of “Anne” by Jake when she was scratching the couch. He yelled out, “Stop it, Sophie Anne.” I hadn’t even realized we never gave her an in-trouble full first & middle name! When Zeeke scratches he just gets, “Zeekey!” No middle name for him. Guess it must be a girl thing.

OMG, Ritzy — You just made me remember another one — Biggidy Ann Jones! That’s when she’s busted, too. Hilarious about the middle name you’re in trouble thing. I’m sure it comes from our parents, huh?

Yah, the glasses. Drug store purchase so I can actually see when I read. Have some fancy-schmancy ones that are progressive, but they’re for looking down,instead of straight, so I almost never wear them anymore.

Thanks for the kudos! And you are right, but yesterday, I had to laugh because I was spelling an entire sentence to the RT about remembering to take her out for a walk before I left on an errand and noticed her watching me very intently — waiting — waiting for just one glimmer of graphophonic recognition. She’s hilarious!